


The Stars: Two-shot

by Lifeinahole



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Jossed, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 04:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14394717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lifeinahole/pseuds/Lifeinahole
Summary: An introspective piece after the season 4 finale, where Emma is stuck in an endless loop of thoughts.





	1. Til We're Staring at the Same Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 of this is solely Emma's thoughts and how she misses her family/Killian. This section rated T for one brief boob joke at the start. I was still fairly new to the fandom, and just getting my writing legs back in motion.

It’s his hand she misses the most. Not in the gross way; not in the way he used to grab one boob and make a squeaky noise after he discovered what squeaky toys were. Although, she  _does_  miss that because while she rolled her eyes more often than not, it also made her laugh. She misses his hand, and his hook, because whether she was holding either one of them, or they were holding her, they were a sense of stability in her life. The only time that ever changed was the brief time Killian had both hands back, and honestly, she couldn’t have cared one way or the other if he had both, as long as he was there.

She really misses the way he rubbed his hand down her back when she needed that extra bit of comfort. Touch became such an important part of their everyday lives that now trying to deal with anything without his hand resting on her lower back feels like emptiness and hollow bones.

When she walks, she does not have a pirate to link her arm through his, lean her cheek on his shoulder, lace her fingers with his as they cross the street. She misses a lot about him, hell, misses him and her family and everything she knows and loves and was just getting used to before she had the idea to spare everyone else by sending herself to this new level of misery.

When it gets especially difficult to be alone, she thinks of every moment of the last few years. She starts with blowing out the candle on her birthday cupcake and the doorbell ringing, Henry standing on the other side and ready to completely fuck up her life in the best way possible. She thinks of breaking the first curse and her mother and father hugging her with such intensity that all she could do was attempt to hug back because she didn’t realize family would feel like this. She thinks of this with fondness, even though the memories of Snow and David’s lies are still fresher in her memory, because she knows with more time that all would’ve been resolved. They just needed the chance.

She thinks of the evolutions of the relationships with each member of Storybrooke. She thinks of how lonely her life had been before Henry found her, and then how lonely she wasn’t. Sometimes, in the beginning, she really didn’t want it, but she admits they all grew on her. Except for when they would come running and screaming about the next new terror. Although, given her options right now, she’s sure she would even take that one yell of panic and the flurry of going to battle.

Emma spends an unquestionable amount of time thinking about Killian. She thinks of the moment they first met, the way he looked up at her while trying to shade his eyes from the sun shining behind her. She thinks of their climb up the beanstalk and his persistently annoying attempts to know her better. She thinks of him wrapping that damn scrap around her hand and tying it off with his mouth, the way he tucked the dangling edge back into her hand.

She thinks of the way she panicked a little when he didn’t respond after the giant fell and she was worried (she hardly likes to admit she was worried about him back then) that he had gotten himself killed. She huffs out a small laugh when she thinks of the way he yelled that they made quite the team.

She doesn’t like to think about leaving him shackled, leaving him with Anton, and the great depths of pain she saw in his eyes when she was locked in Rumplestiltskin’s cell and he assured her that he wouldn’t have done the same to her. She thinks of the fact that it was a partial lie, because the first moment he had to prove he was part of something, he took the magic bean and ran, but she immediately thinks of the way he came back, and how that negated the first action because  _he came back_.

She thinks about that kiss in Neverland, her claims of _one-time thing_ , how she knew even then that she was lying to both of them about that. She thinks of him confidently telling her that he would win her heart. She thinks of how it was less of a challenge than he probably thought it would be, but she certainly gave him a run for his money.

She thinks about his promise before she and Henry left, that not a day would go by that he wouldn’t think of her, and she thinks that the same could probably be said for right now, for right at this moment. She thinks if she thinks hard enough that she can simply wish them all here, where she is, because she’s tired of being away from home and family and  _love_.

She thinks of all the times she denied what was in front of her, when even the mention of his name had made her heart pound in her chest in uncomfortable familiarity.  She thinks of how their stupid love story is stupidly perfect in its imperfection, that it’s more ridiculous than all the fairytales kids grow up with because they don’t know what it’s like to be The Savior, and they don’t know what it’s like to fall for Captain Hook.

And she thinks of every touch, simple or complex, every kiss, every conversation, every time he looked at her with either innuendo or honesty in his eyes. She misses those. She misses being able to be mad at him for saying something ridiculous, only to make up for it with a wicked smile and a raise of his eyebrow. She misses each and every way he said her name, whether  _Emma_  or  _Swan_ , and all the different emotions he could use in just a syllable or two.

She thinks about the moment he admitted she was his happy ending, and how afraid he was of losing her. That last one brings about an ache that, no matter how hard she presses on her breastbone, she can’t get rid of.

And as she curls up, exhausted but still unable to sleep, she curls her hand reflexively, and mostly misses his hand.


	2. Stars Lined Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reunion, some comfort, some light smutty leanings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half was requested after I posted the first one. Not drunk for this one, but I was still getting my writing legs back under me. Originally posted April 5 & 9, 2015.

She doesn’t actually remember who grabs her first. There’s a flurry of activity around her so fast she can’t even make out one face. It’s all hands and eyes and blurs of crying smiles, but she knows whose hand grasps hers first. She feels the dig of his rings against her skin and that’s when it clicks: she’s home.

They spend hours celebrating her return and she spends the whole time sucking down water because it’s been so long since she’s talked so much and laughed, and the feeling of tears streaming down her cheeks is welcome without the hollow ache that usually accompanies the gesture.

She keeps touching Henry’s face and hair, sweeping the soft brown off his forehead and murmuring about how much he’s grown. He endures it all with less teenage sass than she expected, and she’s even more blown away by how mature he is. Her other hand is still in Killian’s. He has only released it a dozen times since they sat down. She is perfectly fine with this because she’s not convinced she won’t just float away if he lets go.

Her parents spend a lot of time holding her, Snow crying, David cradling the back of her head and all she can do is hold them back with one arm, refusing to release Killian’s hand, to let go of the thing still anchoring her. She’s shown pictures of baby Neal, who is not so much a baby anymore as he is a small bundle of movements in most of the photos.

What feels like days later, she’s leaning on Killian’s arm, unable to even keep her eyes open as he unlocks a door and leads her into a room and after that she doesn’t know anything but exhaustion and sleep and his hand resting on her hip.

She wakes after only a couple hours breathing fast in a place she doesn’t immediately recognize and thinks it all has been a dream; that she’s still far away from everything she knows and loves. She doesn’t realize that she’s crying, that she’s curled into a ball until she hears the whispering in her ear, feels his fingers lacing with hers.

“Emma,” she hears and it’s all she needs to open her eyes again and recognize the décor as a room at Granny’s, to remember that Killian is pressed against her back, folding himself around her body to shield her from everything, kissing her shoulder. She turns and buries her face against him, inhaling his scent with each shaky breath until she’s calm again. She’s still so exhausted, but wide awake now.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks quietly.

“No,” she says, can’t believe that’s her croaky voice in the dark of the room. She clears her throat and swallows, squeaking out “not yet” to make the first word less harsh. And it’s enough for him. He nods and kisses her forehead, leaves his lips against her skin and hums in contentment. He’s quiet after that, and she thinks he may have fallen back to sleep. She concentrates on his breathing, how it’s deep and even and ruffles her hair with each exhalation.

Then his hand moves on her back. The light stroke starts between her shoulders and trails down to the hem of the t-shirt she’d gone to sleep in. He drags the edge up to brush his fingertips over her lower back. He moves his hand up again, over her side, and he focuses on a particularly sensitive spot he knows makes her squirm until she does just that. He never moves his lips from her forehead though, so she can feel his lips curve up moments before he makes one good poking motion against the side of her breast and she hears the faint “squeak” he murmurs against her skin.

She laughs loudly and freely, laughs harder when he snuffles against her skin, can feel the tears at the corners of her eyes again and so she leans up on her elbow and looks down at him. And as she gazes down on him in the dark, thinks how the pictures in her mind didn’t do him justice, she traces her fingers over his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose. She brushes over his eyebrows and the faint bags under his eyes. She memorizes the stubble and thumbs at his earlobe and touches his lips with her fingertips and the words seem so easy to say now, so she says them.

“I love you, so much,” she whispers, and replaces her fingers with her lips and kisses him, realizing she hasn’t yet kissed him properly since she got back and needing to make up for lost time. She’s on her back in seconds and hunger replaces reverence and clothing is being pushed out of the way and pulled off. He rolls again and easily hauls her on top of him, her legs sliding to each side of him, like riding a bicycle, even as he slides inside her.

He’s whispering promises of  _love_ and  _forever_  that he damn well intends to keep as she rocks against him. She feels the tears rolling down her cheeks and can’t find it in herself to stop them. He sits up, bracing himself on his left arm as he wraps his right one around her, hand sliding up the back of the t-shirt they didn’t bother to remove. Her arms are wrapped tightly around his shoulders and she gasps as he thrusts up into her, rolling her hips down so they fall into the rhythm that is all them.

Her cheek is pressed against his temple as he continues to confess, to admonish, to worship against her shoulder. She catches snippets of  _Emma_  and  _love you_  and  _what were you thinking_  and  _never again, gods I love you, you bloody brilliant woman_  and he’s moving faster, bringing his fingers forward to circle her clit, intent on bringing her over the edge before he falls. It’s all she can do to hang on and let him lead. She wouldn’t have the energy to take control, not tonight, not when they have all the time in the world now.

And with a moan that’s much breathier and higher pitched than she remembers, she’s coming, burying her face into his neck and letting the pure pleasure roll through her. Killian moves with even more purpose after that, anchoring his hand on Emma’s hip and moving them together until he stills, his groan muffled against the same spot on her shoulder that now holds all the words he saved for her return.

She slows her movements above him, helping both of them ride out the last shocks of pleasure and when she pulls back to look at him, she sees his eyes are as swollen as hers are, can feel the moisture from his tears now that his hot breath isn’t on her shoulder. She presses her forehead against his, reaching down to grab his hand and hold it against her chest, above her heart.

For the night, that’s all they need. He shuffles them until they are laying again, face to face.

“Sleep now, love,” he whispers, caressing her cheek once before he reaches for her hand. She falls asleep with her fingers firmly laced with his.


End file.
